Paint a Murder

by Lily Ashton

  “Of course she doesn’t. It would odd if she did. You were only a child then and children see things differently to adults.”

  “That’s one explanation I suppose. But I know that drawing very well and I’m not convinced it’s the same one. In fact, I’m so concerned about it, I’ve asked a specialist to examine it and give me a professional opinion. Stefan Erickson is an expert on Post-Impressionism and if anyone can authenticate the drawing, it’s him.”

  “Alice,” said Marjorie, laying a hand on her shoulder. “That strikes me as an over-reaction. You haven’t had time to examine it properly yet. You should go and have another look before you start calling in experts.”

  “I don’t think that will help, I’ll have the same doubts however many times I look at it. The point is that it would be irresponsible to hang a drawing on the gallery wall if I’m not sure it’s the real thing. I need a second opinion.”

  “She’s doing the right thing.” Roddy topped up their glasses. “She is the senior curator now and she’s taking her responsibilities seriously.”

  Alice smiled.

  “Stefan’s a top man, he would be my choice of expert too. And lucky for you that he was available so quickly.”

  “When I told him I might have a forged Augustus John, he was so excited he said he’d cancel a dinner so he could come tonight.”

  “What about Duncan Jones?” said Roddy. “How has he taken your news? And will he be satisfied with Stefan’s opinion?”

  “And Vivien?” said Marjorie. “She is the owner after all. I know I would be furious if someone doubted the authenticity of my artwork. Will she accept Stefan’s opinion?”

  Alice ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I haven’t told either of them, or anyone else for that matter, other than you two. I don’t see any need at the moment, we only suspect that the drawing may not be genuine. Stefan will be here after the gallery closes and nobody will know. I’ll see what he says and then decide what to tell Duncan and Vivien.”

  “Dear girl, please tread lightly,” said Roddy. “Reputations are at stake here – for everyone.”

  Marjorie twisted around, facing Roddy straight on. “You’re a fine one to talk, Roddy. If you hadn’t opened your big mouth, Alice might not have been encouraged in this silly course of action. I can’t believe that Vivien would have bought a fake, she’s far too experienced a collector. We can only hope that this expert of yours, Alice, confirms the drawing is genuine and you can stop creeping around galleries in the middle of the night.”

  Roddy spread his hands. “I hope so too. If it were my work, I’d be mortified if people doubted I’d painted it and brought in some young pup to verify it. So please be discreet.”

  “But Vivien’s not the artist,” said Alice. “She’s the owner.”

  “It is the owners, dear girl, who have the biggest egos of all!”

  Alice stroked Delilah’s back. Marjorie’s black Labrador had sat at Alice’s side throughout dinner and was now resting her head on Alice’s knee. Alice had not given any thought to how Vivien would react. Roddy was probably right, she would be furious if she knew that Alice doubted her drawing. Alice could not afford to upset the gallery’s main funder, but she could also not afford to display a fake drawing. She was treading a precarious path.

  “Talking of paintings, Roddy,” said Alice, “how’s the new work coming along?”

  “You’re painting again, Roddy? That’s marvellous. What’s the subject?”

  “You will see when it’s finished.” He shook a Gauloise from its paper packet and lit it with a plastic lighter.

  “Your abstracts were splendid. Roger loved them, as did I. Especially the fried eggs!”

  Roddy scowled. “Heathen! You are the only person I know who can see food in my paintings.”

  “I eat all day, then I dream of food. Which explains my waistline!”

  “Anyway, my work sold well I’m glad to say.”

  “Some of your paintings must be worth a fortune by now,” Marjorie said. “And I bet Walker Hampton’s got the most valuable one.”

  “Walker Hampton!” Alice moved her plate aside and put both hands on the table. “When did he buy one of your paintings?”

  “Forever ago. Back in the day he had an interest in a hotel or casino or something in Palma, so he’d go over to Mallorca every now and again to keep an eye on it.” Roddy flicked ash into a crystal ashtray. “As he liked art, he would do a round of artists’ studios and buy whatever took his fancy. He bought two or three of my pieces.”

  “I didn’t realise you even knew Walker, you’ve not mentioned him before.”

  “I only met him a few times and it was a very long time ago. I haven’t seen him since.” Roddy blew smoke towards Marjorie’s darkening garden.

  “But the party, Vivien’s unveiling– you would have met him then,” said Alice.

  “Was Walker there?” Marjorie wiped her brow with a napkin. “I didn’t see him.”

  “I only saw him by accident.” Alice poured water from a ceramic jug. “I’d been told the best paintings in the house were in the bedrooms, so I snuck upstairs. I was in Walker’s bedroom minding my own business, just about to soak up a joyful Frida Kahlo, when I got caught by Walker himself.”

  “Dear girl,” said Roddy. “When I advised you not to do anything impulsive, I meant things like – don’t go wandering into your funder’s husband’s bedroom!”

  “I was only interested in the paintings!”

  “I didn’t think anything else.”

  Marjorie collected up the dirty plates and stacked them on a nearby trolley. “Walker is a strange fish. He keeps himself to himself most of the time, in fact he’s almost invisible. Makes you wonder what he’s up to.”

  “Well I met him and he was definitely there.”

  “He may have been there in the flesh, but is he really what he appears to be?” said Roddy.

  “So, first you think Vivien’s drawing is a fake and now you’re saying her husband is an imposter?” laughed Alice.

  “Oh no, Walker really is her husband.” Marjorie pulled a cushion from one of the chairs and put it behind her back. “That is, he’s her legal husband, but whether there is any sort of real marriage there is anyone’s guess. Still I suppose it suits them both well enough.”

  “Talking of mysteries, I’ve found out who has the council’s Beach painting that I need for my exhibition. Someone with the initials HSD.”

  Alice searched Marjorie’s face, but not a flicker of recognition crossed her round cheeks.

  “Vivien told me that he or she was a local benefactor. Do you know who it could be?”

  Marjorie shook her head. “How did you find out who had the painting?”

  “The council gave me the list of people who’ve borrowed work from its collection. It had contact details of all the other borrowers, but not this HSD person. No ideas?”

  “No, sorry I can’t help,” said Marjorie.

  Alice twirled her glass stem between her fingers. “But until I find out who HSD is, I can’t even begin to get Beach back. It’s such a pain, I’m desperate to have the star of the show safely stored at the gallery.”

  “Goodnight.” A high-pitched voice came from across the lawn. Delilah pricked up her ears, before bounding across the lawn towards a man in a wide-brimmed hat, disappearing behind a lemon tree.

  “That’s my handyman, he’s been fixing a leaky hose pipe,” said Marjorie.

  “Delilah’s a sweet dog, she must be good company for you.”

  “She is.” Marjorie glanced after the dog, a fond smile on her face. “Though she’s not been herself since her twin left earlier this year. I couldn’t cope with both of them, so I gave her brother to my handyman.”

  Alice checked her watch. “I should get going soon, I’ve got to meet Stefan. It’s been a lovely eveni
ng, thank you for dinner, Marjorie.”

  “You’re very welcome, I greatly enjoyed your company. I’ll take you through the house, so you can see some of my paintings on the way out.”

  They ambled through the large Victorian manor house, taking in Marjorie’s eclectic collection of paintings and sculptures. They ended the tour in the kitchen.

  On the wall was a photo of a younger Marjorie, underneath layers of pink tulle, being whirled around the dance floor by a tall, handsome man.

  “Hey, fabulous outfit,” said Alice. “You look amazing.”

  “I was an amazing dancer too, if I say so myself. That’s Roger and me, doing the foxtrot. We won a gold medal.” Marjorie held up an imaginary medal, a sunny beam on her face. “I spend most of my evenings in here now that I’m on my own, so I’ve brought in some of my special things.”

  “I’m sure Alice would like to see your John Nash, Marjorie, if you’ve still got it.”

  “I wouldn’t part with my Nash for all the tea in China. It’s in the pantry behind you, Alice.”

  Alice’s mouth hit the floor. “Seriously? You’ve got paintings hanging in the pantry?”

  “Not hanging, I just store them in there. I want to hang the Nash over there by the clock, but I haven’t got around to putting it up yet. It’s in the pantry for safe keeping.”

  “I’ll come over another time and fix it up for you,” said Roddy. “Get it out for me would you, Alice, so I can check the fitting.”

  Alice opened a louvre door and stepped into a walk-in pantry, with tiled shelves up to the ceiling on both sides. The right-hand shelves were filled with tins and packets, along with a chocolate cake missing two slices.

  Alice found the Nash on the floor, propped up against a box of wine and loosely covered with a piece of cardboard. Several other paintings were stacked up behind it.

  “Now that’s a landscape I do like,” said Alice. “In Nash’s hands those empty fields look inviting and the trees are wonderful. I don’t suppose I could borrow it for the centenary exhibition, could I?”

  Marjorie hesitated. She reached out and lightly caressed the frame. “Well, why not? I know it will be in safe hands at the gallery.”

  Marjorie and Roddy walked Alice to the front door. “Thank you for your charming company, my dear. Come again soon, I get lonely rattling around in this big house on my own.”

  Marjorie wrapped her arms around Alice and gave her a squeeze. The embrace was generous and maternal. Alice could not remember the last time she received such a warm gesture from her own mother. She leant against the older woman’s padded body and soaked up the hug.

  As she pulled away, Alice spotted one of Jason Marley’s protest leaflets, lying on the floor beside a pair of wellington boots.

  “I see you’ve got one of those too. I was talking to someone about the proposed new shopping centre this morning. I don’t think the protestors are going to stop, despite that poor man’s death.”

  “It’s all guff.” Marjorie threw her arms in the air emphasising the guffness. “Once the centre is built, people will flock into it and they’ll think it’s wonderful. It’ll create lots of jobs and there’ll be more shops and restaurants, it’s good news for the town. People are complaining because they’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “It’s terrible,” said Roddy. “I knew Jason Marley. He used to fish up near Narebridge and he’d drop by on his way back. Only last week, he told me he was making some headway with the Dunn Road opposition. And now he’s dead. It does not pay to make waves in this town, clearly.”

  “Roddy, what are you suggesting?” said Alice. “Can I add murder, along with fake drawings and fraudulent husbands, to your list of imaginary criminal activity in Great Wheaton?”

  Chapter 14

  High above Gregory House’s entrance lobby, moonbeams broke through the domed skylight, mottling the black and white tiled floor. A magnificent dark wood staircase, buttressed with a white wrought-iron banister, followed the sweep of a circular wall to the floor above.

  “This is an impressive entrance,” said Stefan Erickson, his blue eyes sweeping the room.

  “Isn’t it just? I think it’s the most remarkable feature of this beautiful house. Back in the day, it must have wowed the Gregory family’s guests.”

  “It is amazing still, especially for new visitors like me who do not expect something so spectacular.”

  “Wait here a minute, Stefan. I need to turn the alarm off.” Alice opened a door behind the information desk and silenced a determined beep. She typed a number on the alarm keypad, there was a double beep, then the system fell quiet.

  Alice strode across the lobby, unlocked another door and beckoned Stefan over.

  “The store room is in here. Careful as you go down the stairs, they’re a bit uneven.”

  At the bottom of the staircase they stepped into a disorderly large basement room. Bits of plywood, part-opened boxes of catalogues, fought with broken chairs and a forlorn rabbit sculpture, missing one ear.

  As they made their way through the basement, muddle gave way to order. Across the back wall were two rows of compartments, one on top of the other. Each compartment was divided into numbered sections, some housing a painting, some empty. Alice placed Marjorie’s John Nash into an empty section and marked its number on a clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall.

  “These paintings down here,” said Alice, indicating the bottom row. “Are the artworks for the centenary exhibition, and this one here is the Augustus John.”

  She pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and laid it on a table by the side wall. She unwrapped the package, exposing the drawing, and switched on the strip light above.

  “Well, here it is. What do you think?”

  Stefan rubbed his fingers, picked up the drawing with both hands and eased it close to his face. He moved his head from left to right, up and down, diagonally. He held the work at arm’s length, then tipped it backwards, the light from the strip flooding the girl’s face. Placing it back on the table, he gathered his long blond hair in one hand and bent deep over the image.

  “Where did the owner get it from, I wonder?”

  “Vivien Taylor, the owner, told me she bought it from a friend, who’d inherited it from an aunt some years before. But that’s all I know.”

  “So, the drawing has no provenance. That is unhelpful.”

  “I know, but despite that, do you think it’s a genuine Augustus John?”

  Alice still shuddered at the memory of an incident at her previous gallery, when she had attributed a painting to the wrong artist. She had to produce labels for the paintings in an exhibition, with the name of the artist and the title of the work. She had left the job till the last minute and in her haste, she muddled up two of the labels, placing them underneath the wrong paintings. Her mistake had been picked up by a journalist at the exhibition opening, who wrote a derogatory story about the gallery’s incompetence for an influential arts magazine.

  It was an embarrassment for the gallery and Alice was considering her position when Joe spotted an ad for assistant curator at Gregory’s House Art Gallery. She applied for the job and it had been a relief for everyone when she was offered the post.

  It did not take long for the story to travel around the intimate world of art and artists and Alice spent her first months at Gregory’s House trying to repair her damaged reputation. She had made a mistake and if she made another on that scale, she would never get another curating job.

  “I am contemplating …” Stefan dusted the drawing’s glass with a blue handkerchief. “It is not straightforward. Tell me, the owner, this Vivien Taylor, does she have any other significant artworks in her collection?”

  “I don’t know about her, but her husband’s bedroom is full of gems. He has a Degas and a lovely Frida Kahlo. Lots more, too.”

 
“So, the husband must be the collector, yes?”

  “I was led to believe that Vivien was the main collector, but Walker has bought paintings in the past and he has great taste. From what I saw, he’s the real collector.”

  “Walker! Do you mean Walker Hampton?”

  “Yes, do you know him?” Alice rubbed goose bumps on her arms.

  “I have met him two or three times, but I know him mostly from his reputation for aggressive bartering. I am told he can beat down the most resilient of dealers with much charm. As you say, he knows his stuff.”

  “A charming crocodile.” She smiled. “I can believe it.”

  “So, to the Augustus John.” Stefan picked up the drawing again. “There is disagreement about the authenticity. You do not believe it is genuine; why is that?”

  “I first saw the drawing when I was a child and I’ve seen the image hundreds of times since. I know that girl. But this one … Whilst the two images are very similar, I’m not convinced they are exactly the same. On the other hand, this looks so much like Augustus John’s work that it’s almost too good to be a fake. Really, I just don’t know.”

  They both looked at the drawing. A groan from one of the floorboards above interrupted them and Stefan looked up.

  “Don’t worry. This is an old house and it makes strange noises, it sounds worse now the building’s empty. Although, Tommy Norton is convinced we have a resident ghost.”

  Stefan smiled. He turned the drawing over and studied the back. “Sometimes the back gives us helpful information, but this one is blank.” He put it back on the table. “Have you found any other interesting pieces for your exhibition?”

  “I’ve just picked up a lovely John Nash and I’ve got my eye on a couple of other works, though they’re not confirmed yet. I’m hoping that other good paintings will turn up.”

  “But these good paintings may not appear,” said Stefan. “What will you do if you are left with an exhibition of duds? You are taking a risk, it seems to me.”